Two Pennies Towards the Proper Procedure of the Pudding

by Darryl Price

I thought I would always feel your hand, always

Lay with you as we flew together, laugh with

You in little spaces left between trees like flowers


Of sudden light, always find your shining eyes among

A million skies. There has never been a time

When I wasn't aware of your presence in my


Temple of being. Isn't some slowly triumphant dream, nor

A singing desire that flows inside my body, it's

Something I know without any desperation straining the search


For its grail. A familiar absence that calls me

By a name I had all but forgotten in

This lifetime and listens as my response like a


Consecrated prayer burns through air. Together we make one

Lasting voice out of that curse like a blasting

Bluebell. We belong in Paradise, but we are not


In Paradise, instead we're stuck in the muddle like

Pennies dropped out of spite, we're spent on someplace

Else. It's easy to see why they fear any


Mention of love. Still when I see you smile

Like that I am happy until the end. That's

The only message this song contains, but over and


Over again. Poems are only moon clouds to them,

Nothing more to believe. We do what we can.

You remain to me the most beautiful utterance in


The world's busy being born vocabulary. I will always 

Listen for your many cities and stars. Until then

you are carved on my wall, gathering all roads.

Bonus poem:

Blue Chair, Cigarettes, Black Coffee

by Darryl Price


Your once shining stage door where you lived went

vanishing into an unexpected

tighter softer watch pocket, the pocket

sailed away with another man's wife. It's

all too true no matter how carefully

we'd wrap it up in yarn and pearls. Oh yeah,

betrayal smells like a fucking fish head

with a lost bell stuffed in its pretty grim

awful lips, feels like an irregular

rough rock pressed into your hand with a slight


fingers shake on it, but there's nothing

more to be done. Some are left behind. Some

kisses are lies. Some lies are kisses. It

doesn't make the blasted hole you're in less

deep to crawl out of, or the sky less wide

and empty. When you've been bombed to hell and

back by a sensuous friendship you're bound

to want to spend a few days licking at

only shadows, but it does no good to

lurk behind a black and white world. Your eyes


need to adjust, that's all, they'll come back to

know color. At least be a part of it,

a brush of it, a smear, a tear, a stream.

Hey now you get to be a new traveler

as well as a thinner version of your

remaining story. That's more your unique

style any way my beautiful friend. I'm

sorry you got caught by the blues. I wish

we were close enough that I could lift you

out of this hurt forever. You know that.